Of the endes and deathes of two Prisoners/
lately pressed to death in Newgate. 1569.
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TRue Preachers which God liketh well,
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To you I runne wyth all my hart,
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Your wordes with me are like to dwell,
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Untyll thys lyfe I shall depart.
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As for the rest whose tounges are tyde,
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To them who runs, he runs far wyde.
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What so doth best commend the truth,
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All falshood lykewyse discommendes,
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I know you Preachers tender youth,
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And visits them lyke faythfull frendes.
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Yet if there hap a dismoll day,
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The Wolves would teare your lives away
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But they that humbly do you heare,
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And eke well beare your woordes away,
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Having their understandinges cleare,
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Needes never feare the dismoll day.
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Nor wyll seeke peace here in this lyfe,
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Where nought is found but war and strife.
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So they that do, nor yet wyll heare,
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When they be cald, and truth is told,
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Ill haps to them unwares is neare,
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Yet blindnes maketh Bayardes bold.
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But they that warned are in tyme,
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Halfe armed are gainst daungerous crime.
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A tryall fust I found of late,
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Where Preachers dyd them selves addresse,
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To spend the day within Newgate,
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To comfort two whom Law had presse.
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There did I see that comfort great,
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Whereof our Preachers oft intreat.
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There saw I more, do what they might,
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Sharpe judgement pass, the Presse at hand,
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The one would not remyt hys spight
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But doth the same to understand,
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By blasphemies most horrible,
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And countenaunce most terrible.
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Ne would beleve that he should dye,
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Which playnly dyd to us appeare,
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By toyish countenaunce smylingly,
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Which seemed very monstrous geare.
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And yet he was of perfect mynde,
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But thus he shewed hys divelish kynde.
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Wyth hym perswasions would not serve,
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In all my lyfe I saw none sutch:
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He sware great othes he would not sterve,
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If ought there were within the hutch.
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And to it he went full egerly,
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As one that thought he should not dye.
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Anon there came a prisoner in,
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That yrons had clapt on good store.
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Gods hart quoth Wat, you wyl not lyn,
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These partes you playd lyke slaves before.
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And up he snatch hot coales in hand,
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To throw at one that by did stand.
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This stander by a Keeper was,
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That hardly handled him alwayes:
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Wherefore if he myght bring to pas,
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That Keeper should now end hys dayes.
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Though he did burne in hell therefors.
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Sutch Keepers should keepe there no more.
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This desperate foole intreated was,
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By Master Yong and others there,
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To pray for them that dyd trespas,
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And to forgeve, sithe death is neare.
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Gods woundes quoth he, it is shame for ye,
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That cry not agaynst this tyrannye.
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Why wyll not bolts or fetters serve,
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Thinke you (quoth Wat) to hold this man?
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He hath no money though he sterve,
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Hys hose and doublet must trudge than.
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If hell there be, or plages to fall,
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These Villains wyll be plaged all.
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For my part if I boyle in lead,
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I cannot hold but braivle this out.
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Would I might fight how ever I sped,
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Chuld course that Ore and fleering Lout.
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No more good Wat, quoth Master Yong,
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Thou hurt it thy selfe most with that tong.
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Thus parted be and Master Yong,
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Much greved for hys senceles soule.
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But I remayned and used my tong,
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As God dyd force vice to controle,
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But Wat no chaungeling would not rest,
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But fell a fresh unto a test.
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As I might then I did erhort,
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Them both with me to go and pray,
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Where I would speake to their comfort,
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If that the Lord dyd not say nay,
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The time is short, therefore quoth I,
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Let us seeke the Lord whiles he is nye.
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I pray you be content quoth Wat,
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The Lord hath mercy inough in store,
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I may yet have my part of that,
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As he to others hath geven before.
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You must repent and cal for grace,
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(Quoth I) els never looke to see Gods face.
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Then was the tother glad of me,
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And gave to God great thankes and prayse,
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That he might have my companye,
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With hym for to remayne alwayes.
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Wherein such comfort great he found,
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That teares of joy dropt to the ground.
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I see now God is good (quoth he)
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And wyll not have my soule be lost,
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But hath provided you for me,
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Not sparing any payne nor cost.
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You come from God, your words ar swete,
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I feele Gods grace my hart doth mete.
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I would I had knowen you beforne,
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But now it is in ryght good tyme:
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For though my carcas be forlorne,
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My soule to God I feele doth clyme.
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Oh heare me (sayth he) to the rest,
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Ill haps to me is for the best.
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Heare how this misery hath wrought,
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The taming of my flesh so proud:
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My soule to God that hath it bought,
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I do commend with voyce so loud.
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Knowing that he doth heare my cry,
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And pardons me immediately,
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Would God the world dyd heare my voyce
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And would be warned by my death,
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Then would they not in evyll rejoyce,
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But prayse the Lord whyles they have breath.
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And love hym that hath loved them well,
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Who hath redeemed their soules from hell.
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O God (quoth he) is thys thy kynde,
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To care for hym that knew not thee?
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I never had thee earst in mynde,
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Yet now thy grace hath healed me.
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Due thankes to thee I cannot geve,
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That hast now made me to beleve.
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O tell me I pray, what is your name,
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Sayth he to me unknowen you are:
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To you lykewyse I am the same,
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But God that knowes us is not far.
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He wyll reward you this I trust,
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Sith I cannot that dye needes must.
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So God dealt with me yester day,
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A frend he sent us in Limbo:
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Whose good estate God blesse alway,
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For that good lore that came him fro.
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Hys name was Draper Alderman,
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Which was my comfort great as than.
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He prayed wyth us most earnestly,
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No scorne was in hys velvet cote,
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Wyth teares he kyst us lovingly,
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And went with mourning chere God wote.
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So doth the power of the Lord,
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Make divers men in truth accord.
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Thus God hath found me out at length,
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And stayed me of my wicked race
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And me moved with perfect strength
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No tong can rightly prayse such grace
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I would my death were much more vile
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That others might beware therwhile.
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So then we prayed ech one for other
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Wyth trickling teares of joye and greefe
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In truth I tooke him for my brother
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Though never so much he were a theefe.
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Then death to him could not come ill,
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For of Gods grace he had his fill.
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Then foorth we went and made a fyre,
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I dyned there wyth bread and cheese:
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To sing some Psalmes was his desyre,
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So ech man soonge in their degrees.
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O Lord turne not away thy face,
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From hym that lyes prostrate in place.
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But Watson fell unto hys foode
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As one that hungry was in deede
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And merely eate that he thought good,
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But threw the rest the dogs to feede.
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I saw no thought that he did take,
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Nor lykelyhoode from sinne to wake.
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Then up came Maister Yong agayne
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Their deathes now being at the doore
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But Watson could not yet refrayne,
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But laughes it out still more and more,
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Still all in vayne to hym was sayd,
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Yet all the rest downe kneeling prayde.
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Then Skarlet tooke hym by the hande
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And preached, though small to his regarde
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Yet all the rest might understande,
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Hys woordes deserved to be harde.
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And yet he could not holde but smyles,
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Indeede he was begylde therwhyles.
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A Prisoners tale that he dyd trust
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Made hym that way to loose hys lyfe
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So there the matter was discust,
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The presse at length did end their stryfe.
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He trusted that which was untrue,
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Untill it was to late to rue.
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Lo thus much I thought good to wryte
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For those that warned yet will be
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That they in evill no more delyght,
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Nor to such councell do agree.
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Who dyd this yll one so pervarte,
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That heavy presse burst Watsons harte.
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